snickerdoodles
by piratesails
Summary: "You're baking cookies in the communal kitchen at 3am and I'm angry but also really hungry."


Emma's got a piercing headache blooming behind her eyes and she's sure if her stomach growls any louder, she's going to wake up the whole floor. She lets out a grunt and attempts not to focus on the shitshow of a day she's had. It's easier said than done when the way she can't quit gritting her teeth is a stark reminder of that very thing.

She passes her room and makes a beeline for the kitchen in the hope that she might be able to scavenge something out of her quickly diminishing supplies. The fact that Walsh hadn't even offered her something to eat while she practically did 80% of the work on their project only has her curling her hands into fists. Ingrid always did joke that she should have enrolled Emma into anger management classes early on. Maybe her mother wasn't too far off.

She sighs heavily when she reaches the door, the sound of a cupboard shutting loudly making her reevaluate going in there. She doesn't want to have to deal with anymore people, her patience this close to snapping, but she's sure she has a PopTart in the cupboard somewhere and she _really_ wants it after the day she's had to live through.

The guy in the kitchen is bent halfway to the floor when she sees him, his hand reaching for something he's dropped. She also sees the mess; bowls and dirty spoons and flour dusting the countertops.

"What the hell?" It drops from her lips unbidden, and by the way he straightens up and winces, she thinks it might have come off harsher than intended.

He clears his throat and Emma takes him in. She recognizes him faintly, almost certain he's the guy that sits in the row in front of her in her History of Piracy class. Jones, she thinks his name is. Or maybe that's his last name.

She tells herself the only reason she remembers is because she has that class every Wednesday and Friday at 9am, and he's always late, barging in through the door five minutes after the lecture starts. Tells herself it's not because of his dark hair and perfectly trimmed scruff combo, because that would be ridiculous.

"Uh…hello," he says, the side of his mouth lifting in the beginnings of a smile.

Her eyes flit to the spatula in his hand and then back to his. They're blue, and watching her with something akin to curiosity. "Are you baking?" she asks, incredulously.

He lifts his free hand to scratch behind his ear, his own gaze falling to the utensil. "Yes."

"At three in the morning?" She bristles a little at that; she hasn't eaten anything since her early lunch.

"Yes?" It sounds more like a question when he says it, as if he's considering the absurdity of the situation, too. His face breaks out into a full grin then and he shakes his head. "Would you believe I had a craving for cookies?"

She would. She has those moments all the time, but the only difference is that she isn't exactly equipped to work an oven. It's instant noodles and PopTarts that usually win out when it comes to squashing down her cravings.

"Yeah, okay," she murmurs, stepping into the kitchen and reaching for the cupboard she'd claimed as her own on the first day. She doesn't really want to prolong this conversation any more than she needs to; she's never really been a people person.

She reaches for the box blindly, and pulls it out only to find it empty. Emma huffs frustratedly, squashing the box into a thin piece of cardboard in between her palms.

Jones chuckles and she turns her glare towards him. He's put the spatula back on the counter, and raises both hands in surrender. The smirk, though, stays on his lips.

Her stomach rumbles something fierce and her limbs feel tired. Emma figures she can sleep hungry and angry; she's done it before. But that was before she stopped running, before her 17th birthday when Ingrid showed her the official adoption papers, before she finally got to be a kid that was actually _normal_.

She doesn't know who to direct her anger towards so she chooses to scowl at Jones, since he's the only one there. Like a three year old throwing a tantrum, her mind automatically tells her it would be a good idea to chuck the now flattened box at his stupidly handsome face. She stops herself before she can, though, because she is an _adult_ , and also because he's cocked his head to one side and is looking at her like he can unravel every secret she's ever kept close to her chest.

It's unnerving. It pisses her off even more.

"You know," he starts, British accent rolling off his tongue and easing her shoulders down from their tensed position, "if you'd care to shelf the violent tendencies for about twenty minutes, Swan, the cookies will be done by then and I could be persuaded to let you have a few." He punctuates it with a raised eyebrow and his tongue pressing at the back of his teeth. Emma notices it all, but what she latches on to is her name.

"How do you know who I am?" Even when she's exhausted, her guard goes up with lightning speed.

Jones, for his part, stays silent. Then he averts his eyes and scratches at the back of his head like he's said something wrong. "We, uh, share a class together. History of Piracy?" he clarifies, seemingly embarrassed. She might be too if she figured someone knew her, when they really didn't. Or perhaps, this guy just has an ego that's big enough to make him think that he's the most popular shit around. "Emma Swan, right?" he says a little hesitantly, meeting her eyes.

She nods, noting how his ears are slowly tinting red.

"Killian," he introduces himself.

Before she can catch herself, she says, "Jones?"

His whole face lights up and she's this close to tossing the box at her own face for her stupidity. "Ah," he says, voice dripping down low as he takes a step closer to her, "so you _have_ heard of me."

Emma scoffs and rolls her eyes. "It's a small class, names aren't too hard to pin down after a few weeks." It isn't a lie, not really, but she's sure she could only name a few, pick out a maximum of five people out of a crowd if she tried really hard. By Killian's smile, she can tell she isn't fooling him, but she doesn't move to defend herself either.

"Sure, Swan, if that's what you choose to believe."

"Whatever," she mutters, her lethargic state catching up to her. He's close enough that she shoves the piece of cardboard at his chest. She takes the moment he's startled, hands shooting up to hold it in place, to sidestep him and head to the door. Sleeping hungry it is.

"Wait." He has her wrist in his hand before she can get too far, tugging at it once before he drops it. "I was only teasing, love, you're welcome to share if you're so inclined." She tells herself she turns around to him only because she's acting with her too-empty stomach and not her too-rational brain. He's got his eyes glued on the flattened cardboard in his hands, no doubt judging her high fructose syrup intake. Then again, he's the one making cookies in the middle of the night so maybe they aren't too different.

"What kind are they?" It's stupid, she shouldn't be asking. She shouldn't be staying just because she's practically starving. (Just because she likes the way his dimples wink at her when he smiles.)

(Fuck, did she really just go there?)

"Snickerdoodles." He grins again and she feels a tug at her stomach that she convinces herself is just the hunger.

Her stomach grumbles just then and Killian laughs. Even though it would normally, her anger doesn't rise back up and instead she runs a hand through her tangled hair, not quite sure what she should do.

"I'll take that as a yes, then?" he asks, but its rhetorical with the way he throws the PopTart box in the trash can and lifts himself up to sit down on a clean patch of the counter. He pats at a space next to him, looking at her expectantly.

This is Emma's third semester at Misthaven University and she still doesn't exactly have friends. She has acquaintances that are willing to help her out if she misses a few notes in class, but no one who she can have daily lunches with, whose dorm rooms she can crash at, who will drag her to parties she'd rather not go to. Emma didn't think it would be like the movies, but she can't say she isn't disappointed. She's always been kind of a loner, and her "fresh start" (Ingrid's words, not hers) in college hasn't really elicited a change.

Until now, anyway.

She has Ingrid's voice in her head telling her to "take chances" and the smell of cinnamon invading her senses. She slides down next to him, pointedly ignoring the way he's grinning at her, all teeth.

The quiet of early morning should make her uncomfortable, but it's almost soothing. Killian doesn't make awkward small talk, and she's grateful for that, but after about five minutes of staring at her own feet dangling over the tiles, she breaks the silence.

"So, snickerdoodles?"

"They were my mom's recipe. Comfort food." She can see him shrug from the corner of her eye.

"I've always had a soft spot for hot cocoa." She doesn't know why she says it, only that she doesn't regret it when she does. Emma really needs more people to talk to.

He nods, with an expression that she can't quite place. And then says, "Have you made a habit out of roaming the halls like a ghost in the early hours of morning, then?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, it's a one time thing." Emma's going to stick to avoiding groupwork as best as she can, thank you very much.

"Shame," he muses, hopping off the counter to clear up the bowls. He looks back at her with mirth in his expression, "You would make quite the stunning assistant."

"Please, if anything, _you'd_ be the assistant."

"Quite certain of our baking prowess, are we, Swan?"

 _God_ , where did he even come from, talking to her like he's been stuck in Victorian England all his life? Blue eyes completely unaffected by the harsh fluorescent lighting as he grins at her? Emma should leave, baked confectionaries be damned, but instead she finds herself cleaning up alongside him. Their banter flows like they've been friends for years, his stories about his brother back home in London and his essays that he's procrastinating writing, spilling from his lips with ease. She tells him about Ingrid, and her inability to cook, and he grins at her like he already knows the latter.

Once the cookies are cooled, he gestures to her to have the first one of the batch. It feels like days ago when she came in through the door stomping with steam practically coming out her ears, and now she's sharing (surprisingly good) bakery foods with a guy who has the boldness to flirt with her when he has flour sprinkled around the ends of his scruff.

She manages to eat half the batch in one sitting, which earns her an amused raised eyebrow from Killian. The warmth of the cookies settles well within her and her eyes start feeling heavy, reminding her of the too-long day she's had.

"Best be getting to bed, Swan," Killian says softly, "we've class in the morning, after all."

Emma hums, managing to get up without passing out.

She thanks him and the warmth that spreads through her when he smiles at her is something else entirely.

When morning comes, she's surprised to find Killian in his seat a few minutes before class starts. She rubs at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, wondering if the fact that she's running on some four hours of sleep has her hallucinating.

Consciously, she sits down next to him, but avoids making eye contact for as long as she can. It's in the middle of the lecture when Professor Edward is reciting an excerpt of some letter off the projection slide that Killian leans into her, strands of his disheveled hair falling into his eyes.

"What do you say, Swan?" he whispers, "Cupcakes or brownies tonight?"

She can see the sliver of hope in his eyes, and she finds herself wanting a repeat of the softness of last night. Maybe her mother's right; maybe taking a chance wouldn't be the worst thing.

"Cinnamon cupcakes?" she asks, and she knows he finds her agreement in the question.

He smiles wide, and she's sure she's mirroring it because her cheeks begin to ache.

"As you wish."


End file.
